Goal of the day: 554 words. Written: 668.
In case you haven't read the first part of my past drafts (or are wondering why I am showing them), type these letters and read.
11 October 2014.
Our heroine's father was a closed, somewhat psychopathically repulsive man. He showed no love for his wife and, more importantly, for his daughter. If she wanted any love, he would push her away and go to his hut at the end of the yard and listen to Frank Sinatra, Elvis and other old songs. That was the only thing you could hear from behind the closed door of the hut, where our heroine used to stand and listen when she was little.
The father never showed love for his daughter. She was like a thing that came into his life, even though he never wanted it. He was a man who loved his work (whatever it was) and hated people. He tried to be human once, but he was rejected again and again, so life turned this way.
He didn't love his wife either. His wife was the kind of person who wanted attention but didn't get it.
Once, when our heroine visited a slightly better restaurant than she'd ever been to in her life, she heard Frank Sinatra's quiet song L.O.V.E... and she cried. The song reminded her of her father, of all their unhealthy relationships and of how her father changed one day after an unknown event.
(Maybe the event was traumatic - an unborn (dead) child? He killed someone? A loved one died who was the only thing that kept him sane?)
Our heroine was moved by the song. She started humming and the longer she did it, the sadder she got. For her relationships with boys, for her lack of love and for the whole tragic life she hasn't lived.
14 October 2014.
Letter to the noisemakers about sleep and dreams.
Are you not going to stop knocking? Rattling the radiator? Make noise?
And again.
It's 3am.
And you wake up everyone you can.
God, I hate you.
A nightmare.
I want to sleep.
I want to sleep.
I want to sleep with Simona.
To embrace her and be embraced by her.
And here you are rattling on.
And even your dreams - even those - are knocked out of your head.
There are few true joys in this life that do not depend on anyone.
The freedom to dream and daydream is one of them.
And you take it and take it away.
With its noise.
Chaos.
By wanton destruction.
Dramatic and haunting Latin music by E Nomine plays in the headphones...
...I write what I must. What I forced myself to do.
And will I be able to sleep? Will I be able to sleep?
And more importantly, will I be able to dream Simon?
Will you let me?
Silence!
20 October 2014.
Short letter-message [censored].
I said, what do you like so much that you say thank you and make little hearts?
When you said, not directly, but maybe not to me, that a person who has achieved something is also a wicked person in your eyes (+ smiley), I took it as a compliment.
And I like the words of support. God, it may seem to others that I don't need them at all - Daniel is always so cocky - but they bring me enormous joy. Especially when it comes from a girl for whom I feel sympathy.
What is it that affects you? Even to see that "thank you" from you and the other thank-yous - even that makes me happy! It goes into the same basket of joy in my mind along with the words of support.
I've already seen that you liked finding peanut butter from the Czech Republic in your morning box.
I guess you like to receive gifts anyway - you said you like to give them to others, and that's the way we are as human beings - doing for others what we like to do for ourselves.
(Ha, now I think about it - and I do enjoy reading your endless letters and your thoughts, just as I do myself.)
I guess you like to be taken care of.
I guess you like to receive gifts.
I guess you like it when others are open. And tell you if something is wrong.
I had remembered something else, but now I don't remember. Anyway, I'll remember it next time.
Are these things true?
What do you like so much that you repeat thank you and make little hearts?
* * *
Or at least part of it. The other October texts I've already managed to publish, or on rare days (there were, I think, seven of them in a month) I didn't write anything.
Is it becoming clearer that sometimes I write nonsense too?
who wrote nonsense,
Daniel
P.S It is very likely that I am still writing nonsense now. Leave a comment if you think so. Or anyway, don't worry, in five or ten (or fifty) years I will believe it myself. 🙂